My Goodness

“My goodness, it’s Christmas time again,” said old Aunt Sallie. “Wonder what the Claus brought you this year?”

“Socks,” said little Agamemnon, disbelieving. “And turtle eggs.”

“Chinchilla coat,” Louise reported. “Again!”

“Got me a choo-choo,” Tarvis grinned and then chugged out of the room in the general direction of the kitchen where Maw was serving up breakfast—lots of biscuit, a little bit of gravy, and eggs on the side with a whiff o’ ham squeezins. The only day of the year they ate like this—or wanted to, really.

“Oh, give me a Rome where the buffalos home and the uhm-a-mm-mm-mm-mmm,” she never knew the words, who did?

“I’m going to the Mall tonight.”

“You can’t, stupid, it’s Christmas.”

“Awk. What am I going to do?”

“Come over here, honey, and help me set the table.”

“Do I gotta?”

“If you want some squeezins, honey.”

In one corner of the room, way down on the floor, was an area that didn’t get much attention. It was a place where dust settled despite everyone’s—well, Ma’s—best efforts. Most of this time the area sat behind a big old potato chip can, forgotten, collecting things: a twist-tie, a dried blade of grass, a ball of cat hair, pinhead sized clumps of dirt from who knows where, and hundreds—yes, hundreds—of tiny, almost invisible, dust-mite skulls. Above the ossuary, within an old and dusty web, sat the ruler of this corner of the world, a tiny yellow spider.

Most of the time she snoozed peacefully, waiting for a wayward gnat or some other critter to stumble into her web—it only had to happen once—but this morning was different. Someone finally took the potato chip can away.

“Ew,” cried little Davy. “That’s just gross!”

The cat headed immediately for the corner. “Diego, no!” they cried. “Stop him!”

Diego’s tail swished through the tiny skulls, dust, and webbing like a . . . well, a . . . dustmop. Anyway the next thing the little spider knew she was scurrying ass over teakettle into the middle of the floor. Ominous dark clouds rolled back and forth across her sky, emitting threatening bellows of fear and confusion that she couldn’t hear—but certainly could feel. She was almost trampled many times before reaching the far shore where she skittled beneath immense boxes, bows and ribbon, toys, clothing, fruitcake, and crumpled wrapping paper. Every once in awhile a huge pine needle crashed thundering down. There she found a soaring metallic framework, and realized with joy that the god of spiders had shown her the perfect place for a web.

Sure enough, in the spirit of Christmas, the spider found a little present of her own underneath that Christmas tree: a blue-spruce pox beetle, an invasive species that had hitched a ride in from the country. Cracking open its carapace, the little yellow spider sat down for a fine holiday feast, one that would finally allow her to fulfill her destiny by implanting her eggs in the beetle’s nourishing body before dying in peace, fulfilled. She smiled lovingly down upon the quivering beast beneath her. Sensuously, she impugned its integrity.

“Merry Christmas to all,” she whispered, “and to all a good night!”

WOMEN THROUGH THE AGES

This three-minute video created by EggMan consists of images from 500 Years of Female Portraits in Western Art.

From: The Saatchi Gallery : London

Old Jack City

“Dang,” thought Banner Brummett as he listened to the sound of axes falling in the distance. It had been hardly a year since he and his family had built their cabin on the high point between Salt and Greasy Creeks and it was already getting crowded, the way it’d been up by Scarcity Fat before he’d left. Back there Fleenersburg was growing so fast they said that someday it might be bigger than Bloomington itself. As soon as the rumor about the new county had been confirmed he and his brother Pierson had lit out and bought land as near the middle of it as was reasonable. Now it was official. This was where the county seat would be.

“Goin’ over to Dawson’s now, Maw,” he called to his wife, Esther, who was working inside. Out in the yard he passed their tall, ungainly ash leach. Behind it an old hound lay in the shade. Banner stopped beside the yarb garden to bite off a chaw of ‘baccy from the well-gnawed plug he kept in his overalls. He tongued the wad deep into his jowl before ambling off again on his short journey.

It was going to be another hot August day and Brummett wanted to get over to Dawson’s before the shenanigans commenced. James Dawson had got himself appointed sheriff by his pal, the governor of Indiana. This meant he was the one who organized the elections for all the important county positions. Dawson had recently moved down here from his spread in Georgetown after they’d been turned down for the county seat. He’d hastily thrown up a cabin on the south bank of the Salt Creek and was handing out county offices to all of his pals. They’d thrown Banner a bone by making him county agent. It was the least they could do since Brummett had already given over fifty acres of his best land for the new town. He’d given them cash as well, which was hard to come by thanks to the Bank of the U.S., damn their eyes!

They’d actually followed his advice and named the new county seat Jacksonburg, for Old Hickory, the best danged president since George Washington! Nobody was fool enough to argue with that. Jacksonburg. He liked the sound of that name. Kinda rolled off the tongue.

Today we’ll commence the layin’ out, he thought as he passed by the limits of his own property, delineated by a row of dry, piled brush. He crossed the area where the town would soon be. He’d cleared many of the trees himself—beautiful, huge trees that were of no use. So they’d burned them in huge fires, leaving some of the nut trees and a persimmon or two. Once he’d cut the town into lots it’d be somebody else’s problem.

He tried to imagine a courthouse in the clearing and cabins, taverns, shops, a church or two. “Here’s a good place for a horseshoe pit,” he thought morosely. “Maybe set a bench up there for me and the other old boys to sit around and tell each other lies—a liars’ bench.”

Banner started walking again. It was hard to remember how wild this place had been a short year ago. It still was wild around the edges. The bears were pretty much gone but the wolves still prowled nearby in the hills and “pisonous snakes wuz everywhere to be found.” He followed the trail south and soon was at the cabin of his royal highness James Dawson. It wasn’t particularly well built, the logs had gaps big enough to let a skunk through and the joints were laughable—he’d like to see Dawson winter here. Any number of camps had been set up in the clearing near the cabin. Folks were arriving from all over the county to see what the commissioners were going to decide. Banner nodded to a couple of folks he knew from over the old county line. Sighing, he entered the cabin.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden cool dark. The commissioners sat around a thick puncheon table. There was James Alexander of Monroe, David Deitz and Hiram Wilson of Bartholomew County, and Stephen Parks of Jackson County. They’d returned recently from a visit to competing sites for the county seat but there never seemed to be much doubt about what they were going to decide. Georgetown had more settlers but was too far north and Hedgesville as county seat was laughable, the pipe dream of old L.M. Hedges and David Randolph, owner of the grocery there.

“Ah, Mr. Brummett, are you ready?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Come on over and take a look here at Mr. Dawson’s survey . . .”

Outside a crowd of fifty or sixty had gathered. A deer was roasting over a fire and a hastily constructed table was being filled with eats of all kinds. Some of the boys were swimming in the creek, swinging out over the water on a grape vine and dropping off with a loud shout. The men were drinking mash and shooting at a mark. Some were sitting around a stump playing cards, including Littleton Mathis who looked like he was winning. Even the folks up Harden Hollar were there, along with some Taggarts and a Hamblen or two from up county.

Inside the cabin the table had been moved into a corner. A jug, a tin cup, and a bucket of water sat upon it. Across the room, on a bed, a fiddler played as two barefoot men danced.

“Looks like somebody’s declared a holiday.”

As he left the cabin Brummett saw his son Josh and told him to go fetch his ma and tell her to bring the jug. “Tell her Rolla’s here with his fiddle, we’re havin’ some dancin’ tonight.”

Banner joined a large knot of men where Kentucky Bill Snyder was braggin’ on his horse. Said it was the fastest in this new Brown County. He got a good laugh out of that. Soon they were betting on horses they hadn’t even seen yet and planning to meet later in the month up in Georgetown where there was a good flat field to run.

Banner noticed one of the commissioners, Hiram Wilson, fanning himself with a piece of the county map. Something about it caught his eye.

“Lemmee see that for a minute, Hiram,” Brummett said, reaching out. His jaw swung open as he realized what he was seeing. “You added this new township and now Jacksonburg is outside of Jackson township. It’s gonna confuse people.”

“Don’t worry about that now, Banner, we’ll fix it later,” Hiram tipped his hat and stepped over to speak to the widow Jordan.

ØØØ

Seven months later the Indiana General Assembly officially changed Jacksonville’s name to Nashville, at Banner Brummett’s suggestion, to honor the city and state from where many of the county’s earliest settlers had come and where their beloved Old Hickory made his home.

Originally published in Our Brown County Magazine 1995

They put them all in the Blockhouse eventually.